The Road to Redemption
by Nightdew
Summary: Aramis' plan to put Philippe on the throne of France has gone tragically wrong, and he is sure he is damned for it. But his recently-deceased friends have other ideas, and return with a plan to redeem Aramis by putting things right.
1. Porthos

**I wrote this story because I found the ending of The Man in the Iron Mask so upsetting, and wanted to change it. Aramis is my favourite character. I love him, and I couldn't bear the idea of him ending up outside the others' graces. I have only read Three Musketeers/Iron Mask, so the story is based on those and on my own inclinations. A few timings etc. might have been altered to help the story along, so apologies to purists! I've now turned pro writer and don't have as much time for fanfic as I used to, so sorry if I have not given this story quite the attention it deserves. It fills a need in me, and maybe it might for someone else as well.**

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He had cried and cried and cried. In fact, at one point, Aramis had become strangely detatched from his own grief and wondered where all the tears came from. Then he had wondered about the nature of the human eye, and whether the investigations of natural philosophers were in contravention of Christian ethics. Then he had remembered it was his accursed intelligence that had caused this tragedy, and cried still harder.

Porthos! Every time he thought about the worthy giant, it was another arrow in his heart. He should never have involved his harmless comrade in his schemes. Then Porthos would still be enjoying his estates and the fine clothes he had been so ridiculously obsessed with; not lying in a windswept tomb of rock and waves.

"Oh, Porthos! Why did you have to be so loyal?" he sighed.

"Well, there's thanks for you!" said a familiar voice. "I just saved your life back there, Monseigneur Bishop of Vannes. Remind me not to bother again in future."

Aramis started and blinked his tear-filled eyes.

"P-porthos?"

It was undoubtably the worthy musketeer, every bit as large as life. His cloak flapped stylishly from one shoulder and his hair blew about in the sea breeze. Only, where Aramis stood on the deck of the Pomona, looking out to sea, Porthos appeared to be standing in the ocean itself.

"Porthos?" Aramis crossed himself. "Have you come back to haunt me?" The wretched tears began to fall again.

Porthos took a couple of steps and lightly vaulted over the rail of the ship.

"Now, why would I waste my time doing that when there are so many fine women waiting in the afterlife? Lucrezia Borgia, Helen of Troy..." He glanced at Aramis with a look of incredulity. "Aramis, are you crying?"

Aramis felt his pale face flush and began fumbling for a handkerchief. The sight of the iron-faced Bishop of Vannes with swollen eyes and a runny nose was not one he had ever planned to grace his friends with.

"If you haven't come to haunt me, Porthos," he said, trying for his old, prim voice, "I suggest you hurry and get to heaven before the devil notices you're dead, and leave me to grieve in peace. A pity I won't see you there. I'm afraid my fate is already bound elsewhere." He sighed.

Porthos folded his arms across his ample chest.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, friend Aramis. You see, it appears that none of the Inseparables can enter heaven without the others. I am here to make sure you do just that."

Aramis blew his nose.

"Porthos, that is a theological impossibility. It quite plainly states in..."

"Excuse me, and which one of us is dead at this moment?" Porthos interrupted.

Aramis sighed and pocketed the handkerchief.

"Very well then; and what do you think you've come here to do for me? This had better be good. I've a life of perpetual guilt and hypocrisy to get back to, and I'm rather keen to begin it without you."

"Oh, it's simple really," Porthos beamed. "You're going to atone for your sins by becoming a true father to the person who is your son in every way that truly matters."

"And who might that be?" said Aramis, although he suspected already.

Porthos made an expansive gesture.

"Philippe, of course."


	2. Athos

**Thanks to those who have already reviewed chapter 1!**

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"Philippe?" Aramis gave Porthos the look he used to reserve for his theology students. "Porthos, I hate to mention so painful a fact, but the reason you're dead and I'm stuck on this ship is because I tried to take Philippe from his incarceration in the first place. If I go back to France, Philippe won't get a father. The King will get a fresh and highly attractive corpse. No offence."

"Yes, well." Porthos shrugged." You're the intelligent one. I thought you could come up with a scheme."

"I don't do schemes any more," said Aramis bitterly.

"In that case, it's just as well you have us," said another familiar voice.

The traitor tears sprang to Aramis' eyes again.

"Athos? Not you as well. And - oh, please God! - not Raoul too!"

"Who else, beloved Aramis?" The young man vaulted on board ship and smothered Aramis in a hearty embrace. Aramis had expected his touch to be completely insubstantial, but it was more like being hugged by dense cloud.

Raoul stood back, highly pleased with himself. The young man was smiling. He was actually smiling. Athos too looked warm and contented. The years had dropped away from him. In fact, he and Raoul looked practically the same age, almost the same man, except that Athos still had the air of stern authority that Raoul had not lived long enough to acquire.

"No, no." Porthos shook his head aggressively. "Athos, you and Raoul can't be..."

"Finally free of that hell people call life?" said Athos. "Yes we are, and thank God for that!"

"Amen," said Raoul.

"Well, this is highly inconvenient, I must say." Porthos scowled. "I left everything to young Raoul in my will."

"Then we'll just have to make sure Philippe gets it, won't we?" said Raoul with a smile. "I have everything I need right here." He patted Athos on the shoulder. Athos beamed with fatherly pride.

Aramis began to feel this was all getting beyond his control. It was an unfamiliar sensation and not one he enjoyed.

"Look; I hate to break up the afterlife reunion, but there are several things I need to point out." He enumerated them on his still-dainty fingers. "One: I strongly suggest I am the last man Philippe wants for a father. Even if we were able to rescue him again - which I doubt - he is more likely to run me through than embrace me with open arms after what happened last time. Two: what about D'Artagnan? He will never approve of this, and I truly don't think I can bear to deceive him again. And three: I have no desire to risk my life in this way. Do I not even get a say in my own fate?"

"No, you don't," said Porthos with feeling. "The boot's on the other foot now, Aramis my friend. Your fate is changing, like it or not. One for all and most definitely all for one!"

"And the question should be," said Athos gently, "not what Philippe feels or what D'Artagnan feels but: what do you feel, Aramis? Do you love the boy?"

Aramis pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling. The heart he had led many of his colleagues to believe he didn't possess felt dangerously fragile. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it together."

"Yes," he said huskily. "Like a father."

"Well, then," said Athos, with a glance at Raoul. "Nothing else matters."


	3. Raoul

**I hope you're still with me, fellow Aramis fans. Thanks for the reviews so far.**

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"Right," said Athos. "This is the plan."

The three ghostly Inseparables were sitting perched on the ship's rail, as blithe as if it were the days of Monsieur de Treville once more, and they were carefree young musketeers. Aramis, by contrast, huddled on deck with his cloak about him, feeling empty and old. The last time he had seen Philippe, the young prince had been frightened, uncertain, relying on Aramis for guidance. He had told Philippe he would only be gone a few minutes. How could the boy ever trust him again? It was madness.

Athos cleared his throat sternly.

"We three go to the isle of Ste. Marguerite. Porthos will keep watch while Raoul and I appear in Philippe's cell. It was to us he threw the silver plate, remember? That cannot be mere chance."

"How philosophical you have become since your death, friend Athos," Porthos grinned, with a twirl of his moustache.

Athos grimaced.

"Then Raoul and Philippe swap clothes and Raoul puts on the iron mask. I believe his form is substantial enough to take it. We all appear to have bodies of a sort." To prove the point, he slapped Porthos on the shoulder while the former was in mid - moustache- twirl. Porthos' finger went right up his nose and he swore. Raoul nearly fell off the rail with laughing. Aramis' lips parted in wonder. He hadn't heard Raoul laugh in years.

"While Porthos and I sneak Philippe away, Raoul will pose as his poor, dead body, perished in prison."

"I might do a spot of haunting after my demise. You know, don't blame poor Monsieur D' Herblay, that sort of thing." Raoul grinned mischievously.

"You will not! You'll come straight back to us once your mission is complete. I want to see you on board this ship in three days. Understood?"

Raoul touched his forelock with a wink. Had he had any light left within him, Aramis might have laughed himself at Athos' fierce protectiveness for a son who was already dead. Instead, he heaved a sigh.

"But Philippe - I pray God - is still flesh and blood. You can't just spirit him away. Or can you?"

"No." Athos was blunt. "That is where you come in, Aramis. You must have this ship brought within rowing distance of Ste. Marguerite. Bribe. Lie. Threaten the Inquisition. Use whatever tricks you used to get yourself into this mess. Just be there, Aramis. That boy needs you, I swear it."

Aramis slowly tuned the signet ring on his finger. One for all and all for one, he reminded himself. Whatever the end.

Raoul slid off the railing and knelt at Aramis' side.

"Father's right, you know," he said in his gentle voice. "My life was as miserable as hell, but I knew I had a father who loved me. Nothing can take that away from me, not even death. Give Philippe that chance, Aramis. Let him know love. It truly is the greatest thing, even when it breaks your heart." A shadow passed over his face. He shrugged it off and smiled again. "And I know Philippe will love you, Aramis, just as I do."

Aramis took Raoul's vaporous hand in his.

"If I had sired a son, I would pray he was just like you."

Raoul squeezed Aramis' hand and smiled.

"He will be."


	4. Philippe

Philippe was having the same dream again. The one where he woke up in the enormous bed after sinking, sinking. Above him was the silken canopy and the golden crown, held aloft by gold-winged angels. And seated in an armchair by his side was the man who had given him his freedom: a quiet, delicate-featured man, still agile of movement for his mature years, and yet more agile of mind.

"I will be with you shortly," said the man as he stood to leave. "Then we shall speak further."

Philippe felt panic rise in his chest. Ridiculous: he couldn't remember who the man was, and yet the idea of his going made sweat pour from Philippe's neck and forehead.

"I will only step outside your door for a moment," said the man.

Philippe began to thrash in the silken bedsheets.

"No! You mustn't! You mustn't! Come back!"

The crown faded to an old-fashioned canopy eaten with moth-holes. Dim light through mullioned windows showed heavy black-oak furniture. Philippe put his hands to his face. Iron. Iron again. He knew where he was now. A creak of uneven floorboards outside the door betrayed the presence of those guards who never left, never, day or night. Small flies buzzed around an untouched plate of food.

Was this the nightmare? Or was the other place a dream? Philippe was no longer sure. Sometimes he thought the room with the crown and angels was real and he had been there once. There had been someone in that place who he had meant to forgive and treat kindly. A brother? Was that who the man at his bedside had been? It was someone Philippe cared for, he was sure. Someone who had taught him things. But wasn't that man much too old to be Philippe's brother? He couldn't remember. He didn't know how old he was any more. He didn't know how long he'd been in this place. Either of these places. He didn't know where he was meant to be.

He was weeping again. Against the iron his skin was sore, so sore with the salt tears and the rust. They had taken away even his butter knife and the cord of his dressing-gown. There was no escape. Only this endless pain and the dream.

"Monseigneur," said a gentle voice at his side. "It is time to leave this place."

Philippe turned over on the bed. Two identical men were standing at his bedside, in front of a faded hunting tapestry. Two identical men. Had that not also been part of the dream? Philippe shivered.

"Are you the blessed angels of death, come to claim me?"

Both men gave identical looks of compassion and empathy.

"We have come from death, but not yours," said the first man again. He took out a picklock. "Come, Monseigneur. One who loves you is waiting."

The second man took off a heavy cloak he was wearing, and removed a broad-brimmed hat.

"May I have your dressing-gown, Monseigneur? It is time for me to take your place in death and for you to take mine in life. Can you stand?"

For a moment, Philippe had a recollection of something round and shiny falling from a window. With it came the memory of a voice: a wise, beloved voice. His father? He couldn't recall having had a father.

"In a few moments, Monseigneur," said the first man, working all the while at the iron locks, "we are going to stand behind that door. When the guards come in to bring your breakfast, we will glide silently into the passage. Can you do that? Do not be afraid if I seem to disappear from your side from time to time, or am joined or replaced by another man. That is merely to baffle any watchers, should we be seen. I know you will be brave, Monseigneur." The man knelt and kissed Philippe's hand. It felt like being kissed by a man of sponge.

"Are you taking me to my brother?" said Philippe, uncertainly. Likely this was a new dream he had not experienced yet. So many things were the same and yet not the same. They went to somebody who loved him? Had anyone ever loved him? He had the feeling that he had done a bad thing, a terrible thing. Or was it that someone had done a terrible thing to him?

The two men exchanged glances. The second one put a gentle hand on Philippe's shoulder.

"We are your brothers," he said. "And we have come to take you home."


	5. D'Artagnan

**Here are the next two chapters of the story. (Only one to go - I think). Sorry if it's a bit rubbish. I'm partially making it up as I go along, although I do have a vague plan. And I'm writing it in between other stuff. It is definitely more about Aramis' emotions than it is about the mechanics of the rescue, so I don't know how well that will appeal to people. It means something to me, and that's all I can say.**

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Porthos was waiting by the rowing boat. He leaped to his feet when he saw Athos and Philippe approach; and slapped his old friend on the back.

"I knew you could do it, Athos," he grinned. "Just like old times, eh? And this is the young man who's going to save Aramis' soul? Good to see you properly and know who I'm looking at for once, Your Grace." He squinted at Philippe's chafed and uncomprehending face, then looked back to Athos. "Are we calling him that? Your Grace? What are we calling him?"

Athos put a protective arm around the young man's shoulder.

"Best leave that for Aramis." He leaned near and whispered in Porthos' ear. "His mind is fragile. Have a thought and be gentle with him until he's safe in Aramis' care."

"When have I ever been otherwise?" Porthos objected. But Athos was looking elsewhere.

"I fear this escape has been too easy. Make haste, friend Porthos. And pray that Aramis has not let us down this time."

"I fear you are right." Porthos glanced over his shoulder as his still-strong arms lifted Philippe into the boat. "There is a man coming along the beach. Hurry."

Athos followed his companion's glance, and stepped lightly aboard.

"Not too speedily, my friend. We don't want to arouse suspicion."

But as the man drew closer, he gave an agonised cry, and began running for the boat.

"No! Athos! Porthos! Don't leave me, sweet vision! Even if this is the dream of a grief-crazed old soldier, let me go with you one last time!"

"It's D'Artagnan," said Porthos. "What do we do?"

"Had you planned to appear to him?" said Athos.

"Of course. But not now. Had you?"

"Ridiculous question!" Athos blinked back what might have been tears. "I never could bear to see that boy in trouble." He pulled Philippe closer to his side and nodded at D'Artagnan. "Come on then, lad. The Inseparables may as well be inseparable once more."

D'Artagnan had now reached the boat. Porthos reached out a friendly arm and pulled him aboard. Philippe gave a whimper and huddled to Athos' side.

D'Artagnan looked at his former comrades with the air of a man resigned to seeing hallucinations. He shook his head.

"I returned to this place to be alone with my grief and to ask myself if I truly did right. I should have expected to meet with your shadows here as elsewhere. But seeing your faces only reminds me again of the unjust cruelty you suffered." He bit on his moustache. "It is Aramis who served you ill, not I. And doubtless never shed a tear for it."

Athos and Porthos fitted the oars in the rowlocks, fastidiously not looking at each other.

"If you were to see Aramis?" said Athos, carelessly.

"I would... I should... Oh, how should I know?" D'Artagnan growled with a surge of his old temper. "Aramis is gone into exile, and when I wake from this dream, you two will be far from me again and I will be cast adrift much like this boat..." He paused and turned his shrewd glance on Philippe. "Not you two. You three. Who is this?"

"Raoul, of course," said Athos, without batting so much as an eyelid.

D'Artagnan narrowed his eyes.

"Raoul died in North Africa, sunburned and bloody. This fellow has not seen the sun in years. Unless it was the Sun King... " He looked closely at the terrified Philippe and snorted. "You think I would not know your dear boy when I saw him, Athos? What ghastly torment is this? Isn't this my master's brother?"

"We regret to be the first to inform you that Philippe is dead, D'Artagnan," said Porthos, pulling hard on the oars. "You will hear the news soon enough. We are ferrying his soul to its final resting place."

At this, Philippe gave a shriek

"I am dead? Mordieux! But you promised, Monsieur. Your twin promised I would live. Oh, mercy! Mercy! Take me back!"

D'Artagnan gave a fierce scowl.

"What is this?" He reached out a hand and touched Philippe's tender face. Philippe wailed.

"This boy lives!" He made the sign of the cross at Athos and Porthos. "What are you? Who are you? How dare you assume the forms of the two noblest men who ever lived?"

Athos reached across the boat and took D'Artagnan's arm. The Captain flinched at the not-quite-substantial touch of his old comrade.

"It is us, D'Artagnan," said Athos. "The same Athos and Porthos with whom you tried to fight three duels at once by the Carmelite Convent."

"And with whom you once shared Louis XIII's forty pistoles," said Porthos. "There was a fourth man in those days, as I recall," he added, pulling hard on the oars and looking over one shoulder to where the topsails of the Pomona were just visible behind a promontory. "No; wait. That was you. You weren't even a musketeer. But we excused your immature, country bumpkin ways." He gave a sly wink. "I believe it was Aramis who said we should give him a chance. Wasn't it Aramis?" He scratched his beard.

D'Artagnan set his jaw.

"What is going on here? Tell me now or I alert the guards."

Athos rubbed Philippe's back, as a man might who wanted to quiet a fractious child.

"Stay with us and you'll soon find out."


	6. Aramis

Aramis held up a hand and watched the blood drain from it. He had never managed to lose the habit he had acquired in his younger days, when cutting a fashionable figure before influential mistresses had been his one source of security, and his fortune had been in his delicate good looks and educated conversation. He had been in love then. He dared to admit it now, although at the time he had denied it even to himself. He had never been able to so much as admit to a liaison before his friends. If he never spoke it, then somehow his ideal of priestly chastity might be true. That was how he had justified it to himself at the time. As if he could conceal from his right hand what his left hand was doing.

Aramis sighed. He had never left off that habit of self-deception either. He had never quite been able to content himself with just one life: scholar or soldier, priest or politician. All his life, he had been masking his true self. Much more than Philippe, he had been the Man in the Iron Mask. Now he no longer knew who he was; what he had originally been before he had met Athos and Porthos. Porthos had his appetite for life, even in death; D'Artagnan his unwavering duty to the crown; Athos his innate nobility and honour. What did he have; he who had shown so much promise in those distant days back in the seminary and the practice-yards of Monsieur de Treville? Nothing. Nothing but broken dreams, failed ambition, and a ship and crew he had lied to once again for the faint chance of something - someone - of whom he could be proud.

He strained his eyes, searching the water. Was there a boat coming yet? His nerves were frayed to pieces with waiting. The crew had sworn they would take the Master of the Jesuits anywhere, but anyone could see they were growing restless. And Aramis himself barely knew if he was more afraid his friends would return with the precious cargo they had promised, or that he would see Philippe sailing round the promontory and know the boy hated him.

Father. People had called him Father at many times during his life, but he had never had the chance to be a father to just one man. When had he first known he loved Philippe as his own son? That first time he had seen him look at the stars in the open air, and known that all the lad truly wanted was to be free? Or before that, in the Bastille, watching the boy absorb information and ideas as no one else ever had? Finally, a kindred spirit, a youthful soul to whom he could pass on all that was best and dearest to him. Even with his three closest companions, Aramis had never known that. Not one of them had really had the time for his love of books, of philosophies, of the spiritual within the material. Porthos was too worldly; Athos too much of the old blood; D'Artagnan too much a man of action.

D'Artagnan. Aramis rested his head on his pale hand and sighed. It had seemed almost amusing at the time to trick his old friend, thinking that at some point in the future he would be able to reveal the splendid deed he had done for the glory of France. Now D'Artagnan would never see him again. He would spend the rest of his life blaming Aramis for the mess he had left behind. On top of everything else, it was too much to bear.

"Mon Dieu! Now I am conjuring visions from my own guilt," Aramis exclaimed, as a boat drew within sight of the ship, seemingly carrying a stern-faced D'Artagnan, alongside Porthos, and a shivering figure clinging to Athos' side. "D'Artagnan!" he called over the bulwarks. "Dear D'Artagnan, tell me you are not another ghost come to haunt me for my sins."

"Aramis!" D'Artagnan leapt to his feet, almost capsizing the boat. "Are you in the land of the living?"

"In body only, I fear." Aramis put a hand on the rail to steady himself. Philippe's face! The poor boy's face! How many tears must he have wept within that hard iron mask, there where no one could see? How well Aramis knew that feeling. His jaw began to tremble.

"The sailors are lowering the rope," Athos said to D'Artagnan. "Help Philippe aboard. "I must go to Aramis"

Aramis never saw how quickly his old friend ran across the surface of the sea and leapt onto the Pomona's deck. He only felt the cloud-like arms about him as he laid his head on the ever-reliable shoulder.

"My boy!" he sobbed. "My poor, dear boy! I should have been there for him."

"I know," said Athos gently. "I know."


	7. Redemption

**Well, here's the end of the story. Not sure if it went quite the way I envisaged, but I enjoyed writing it all the same. I hope that someone enjoyed reading it too. Please be kind - this was squeezed into my spare time from other writing.**

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"He's crying. He never cries." D'Artagnan shook his head. "This is just a dream, isn't it?"

Porthos shrugged expressively.

Athos released Aramis from his embrace and turned him to face the bulwarks. Philippe! The poor, ruined boy was staring at Aramis with parted lips; for the first time no longer blank-faced but rapt with the joy of recognition.

"It's you! I have seen you so many times in my dreams, Monsieur. Though I fear my whole life is but a dream. Tell me, good Monsieur, is this Purgatory?"

Aramis wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"For me, my son, but not for you." He held out his arms, trembling. "My dear boy, there is so much I must ask you to forgive. Can you even begin to forgive one whose only thought should have been to care for you as a father?"

Philippe screwed up his face, as though it hurt to think.

"Are you my father?"

Aramis could feel his heart breaking. Would a gentle lie hurt this confused, frail young man? Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of D'Artagnan's stern features. No. No more lies.

"Your natural father? No. But one who loves you and begs the right to be a father to you from now on. If such a thing can be."

Philippe smiled feebly.

"You must be my father, for I love you, and know I want to be like you. I am confused somewhat, but I remember that."

Aramis gave a wordless cry and rushed towards Philippe. The young man managed two steps before his legs buckled under him. D'Artagnan moved in just in time to catch him under the arms, and hand him to Aramis. The Captain's embarrassment at the two men's emotion and bafflement at his present situation was written in every crease of his face.

"So..." Porthos curled his moustache with a nonchalant air. "Forgiven Aramis for my death yet?"

D'Artagnan opened and shut his mouth several times.

"Don't tease the poor lad, Porthos. He's in mourning for three very good friends," said Athos, coming to stand at D'Artagnan's other side.

"Excellent friends. The best," Porthos agreed enthusiastically.

"Particularly good at keeping long- sworn oaths," said Athos.

"One for all and all for one." Porthos scratched the side of his nose. "You know, he's not getting any of this, Athos. He thinks it's all a dream."

"Which may well be enough for now," said Athos wisely. "Dreams oft tell true, as well I know. Take him home, Porthos. Time enough in his life to enlighten him further. I shall sit on the figurehead and wait for Raoul."

"Will his part be convincing enough?" said Porthos.

Athos squared his shoulders.

"My boy will not let us down."

"And what of Aramis?"

But Aramis was already tenderly thumbing the tears from Philippe's ravaged face, a face that could never again be mistaken for that of the Sun King.

"Come my boy, and let us rest a while in my cabin. We have a long and difficult journey ahead of us," he said.

"To Spain?" said Philippe, eying the signals on the mast.

Aramis put his arm through that of the young man who was now his son.

"Further than that. To redemption."


End file.
